Crossed Sticks (Buffalo Warriors Hockey #1)

31. Luca

31 /

luca

It had been ten days since I last saw Harper—ten goddamn miserable fucking days. Early in the week, I’d almost driven to the Warriors’ camp in Rocky River to see him, but I fought the temptation. Crowding him in the middle of his first training camp wouldn’t get me the kind of attention I wanted. When the urge returned a day later, much stronger, I reminded myself I probably wouldn’t be able to see Harp if I went since the Warriors’ camp was closed. Even if I’d been able to use my status as an athlete to get in, I’d still be bothering him while he was trying to figure things out. This would hardly move the process in a positive direction.

Usually, I texted him during the day, and he responded late in the evening. Though his replies were longer than the ones he’d sent from D.C., they were still nothing to hang my hopes on. I understood how busy he was, but there was always a sharp twist in my stomach when I read his meager replies, knowing I wouldn’t hear from him for another day. To make things worse, I had no idea how long things would go on like this. Would the situation be any better when his season started? Or would I have to wait until winter or even spring?

I felt like shit, mentally and physically, so I holed up at home. When a buddy from the Steamrollers messaged asking if I’d like to meet him and another teammate for tennis and burgers, I didn’t answer. I was afraid if I responded, they’d ask why I wasn’t interested, or worse, pressure me to go. Caleb also texted a time or two wondering how things had gone with Harper. I didn’t want to talk to him about it, so I left his messages to answer another time.

My appetite disappeared completely, and although I knew I needed to eat, I couldn’t force much down. I had a boiled egg one day, and some string cheese later in the week. Increasingly, I spent time upstairs in the loft. The bed was a comfortable hideout. There was a nice TV, and the blinds kept out the light, which helped with the headaches I’d been having. When I felt sick, I pulled the comforter over my head and lay in its dark, snug embrace. My legs got heavier every day, and since going up and down the steps was difficult, I brought crackers, string cheese, and water upstairs and kept them near the bed.

Mostly, I left the TV muted while thoughts of Harper circled in my head like sharks. They must have been nuclear sharks, because they never got tired. Swimming in endless circles, they asked the same questions over and over. What the hell happened? What could I do to make things better? What would Harper decide, and how the fuck long would it take him?

Nearing the end of the second week, I wondered what he was doing with the other guys at camp. Were they hanging out and having fun every day? At lacrosse camps, we always had a little time to sit around and shoot the shit. We also had occasional nights off when we’d go out for drinks. My gut twisted when I wondered if Harp was having a great time with his buddies while practically ignoring me.

Even when I broached the subject, his messages never talked about the only things that mattered—what he was thinking, and when we could get our relationship back in order. I wished I’d gone to Rocky River when I had the strength, because the longer he kept himself walled off from me, the more likely it was to become permanent. When those thoughts ate at me too hard, I pulled the comforter over my head and cried.

Since I couldn’t bear sunlight, every day was a somber shade of gray. I slept as much as I could. Sometimes I ate a cracker or two. When my supply of water ran low, I cut back on how much I drank. One morning, I ordered more, and when the delivery guy texted saying he was nearby, I told him to leave it in the hallway by my door. It was late afternoon before I could force myself to go downstairs and get it. I had to take so many rest stops along the way, it was over an hour before I got back in bed.

While I caught my breath, I wondered if Harper missed me. I found the phone between the comforter and sheet and reread our messages from the day before.

LUCA: Another day at camp coming right up, eh? Go kick ass and show them who’s boss.

LUCA: Phone says it’s 89 outside here. Be glad you’re on the ice. Food there OK?

He’d replied at 9:52 p.m.

HARPER: Hey. Hope you had a good day. Scored some goals at the scrimmage and the food’s pretty good. Think I got sunburned just walking back to the hotel. You doing all right?

I must have been asleep when his message came in, because I hadn’t replied until 3:29 a.m.

LUCA: Be careful outside. You’re way too handsome to let sunburn mess up your skin. I’m glad to hear you’re scoring goals, but it’s not a surprise. Bet they’re all really glad to have you. I miss you, Harp. Will I get to see you soon?

Much to my surprise, a reply had been waiting when I woke again about noon.

HARPER: We’ll see each other soon. Miss you too.

The message was all it took to set me off, and I cried for a while. I needed to see him so badly. Would I be able to make the drive to Ohio? Maybe I should eat some cheese. Ugh—maybe tomorrow.

LUCA: Can’t wait. We’ll do something fun. Good luck today.

He hadn’t replied yet, but it was only the afternoon. I knew he was busy.

Several days later, there were more texts to reread. One night, we’d gone back and forth for a few minutes, and he said he couldn’t wait to walk around our neighborhood again. His last message had made me cheer.

HARPER: I miss you so much. I don’t feel normal not seeing you, and this can’t go on for much longer. Maybe I’m figuring things out.

He didn’t text at all the day after that, even after I sent three messages. Apparently, the things he was figuring out were not what I was hoping for. I stared at the ceiling until long past midnight.

A day or two later, I woke nauseous and headachy. When I went to the bathroom to raid the medicine cabinet, it only contained rubbing alcohol. The prospect of going all the way downstairs was too much, so I got back into bed and drank some water. Everything seemed darker than usual as I felt around for my phone. I moaned when I found it, because it was dead. I reached for my charger on the bedside table, then cursed when it wasn’t there. It must have slipped off the nightstand, and my head hurt too much to lean off the edge of the bed and look for it. It could wait until I felt better.

My stomach was too upset for crackers. The water had an unusual oily taste, but I forced myself to drink. I drifted in and out for a while, having weird dreams of Harp and me walking on the beach, then losing each other in the fog. Odd noises came from behind the trees, and a flashing light cast a sickly, yellowish glow. He didn’t answer when I called his name.

All at once, there were footsteps downstairs. Harp was back! It had to be him, right? I tried to call his name but only choked out a rasp. After clearing my throat, I tried again. My voice was weak, but someone downstairs would’ve heard me. The footsteps started up again and then gradually disappeared. “Harper?” I croaked again, but no one replied.

The light was different, more charcoal than gray, and the room was freezing. Wondering what day it was, I searched for my phone and found it on the floor. It was dead. The fucking charger was down there, too, and I thought my head would explode before I got everything plugged in. The phone took too long to come to life, and when it did, I gasped.

Fuck almighty—how could it be Thursday night? The last day I remembered clearly was Monday. Notifications stacked up on the screen as the phone came to life. Harper’s name was on at least one of them, but as I tried to click over to the messages app, a vicious wave of nausea hit. My stomach lurched, but nothing came up, and my head threatened to blow apart. The world spun as my vision went black.

The room was completely dark when I came around. My cheek was stuck to the floor—or at least I thought it was the floor. It felt like wood underneath me, the chilly surface a stark contrast to the raging fire in my gut. “Siri.” Was that weak whisper my voice or a hallucination? “Siri, call 911.”